In the Nightlands - Part Three
Iron Born Capital St. Joseph, Missouri Legion Training Arena February 28th The rain pelted down on Hekration and Catellus, turning their red tunics into sloppy second skins as they circled each other on the sand. From the corner of his eye, Hekration could see Broc Beag, the wolf fur collar of her coat laying drowned flat against her shoulders, strands of her dark hair trailing across her face from the wind that drove the rain at them. Her expression was so hard that it looked like it was about to shatter. He could see the effort it took to restrain herself from wrapping her arm around their fourteen year old daughter Scythia, who stood a half step away, still as a statue, watching. He couldn’t see the emotion in her face, but he knew it was there, hidden behind a mask as hard as her mother’s. He raised the tip of his gladius, inviting Catellus in again. Catellus kept his head turned to the left, watching him with his undamaged right eye. Rain water ran red down from his left eye where Hekration’s pommel had shattered the fine bones surrounding the eye, destroying the delicate organ. Hekration kept his left foot forward guarding himself with the gladius, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side. He continued to circle to his right, pushing into Catellus’ blind spot. There were no tricks that would work against Catellus. They knew everything about each other, having learned the sword side by side. They'd faced off hundreds of times in practice and spent years fighting and bleeding shoulder to shoulder for the Legion. Catellus’s shield lashed out and Hekration barely shifted his knee away from the hard bottom edge of the scutum that would have shattered it. The point of Catellus’ gladius flashed out from behind the shield at his abdomen. Hekration battered the blade down with his and threw his useless right shoulder into the shield driving Catellus back. The impact sent burnings stabs of pain through him. Sparks appeared at the edge of his vision like fireworks. He threw his weight forward and turned, pushing Catellus’ shield away and drove the point of his gladius around it. He felt it dig into flesh. Catellus’ gladius pushed his up with a ring of steel and he pivoted away. Hekration took a heaving breath, watching his brother. Catellus’ shield dropped to the sand. Catellus tried to raise his left hand, but it would not move. Hekration could see the wide rent in the arm of Catellus’ tunic. Blood flowed rapidly from the wide gash in his bicep. “A good thrust,” Catellus said, huffing. “So it was,” Hekration replied. He quickly scanned the crowd. The London barristers stood under black umbrellas, Jean’s hands over her mouth. Scathach stood alone, her gladius in her hand as a warning to any who might think to interfere. Her long grey hair plastered down onto the shoulders of her crimson tunic. Captain Miller stood in his soaking uniform flanked by other Frontier Corps soldiers, his arms crossed, his expression as stormy as the sky above them. Members of the Iron Born senate stood by, some aghast, some praying, others captured by dread fascination. And then there was the sea of crimson and armor. Hundreds of legionaries stood like statues, like a flash of lightning captured in iron; Iron Lightning – Fulmene Ferri. They did not move, not even seeming to breathe, silent and emotionless. Rain and wind tore at their tunics, coats and armor, sending cloaks, coat tails and hair flying. But they were not moved. Catellus lunged in with a thrust followed by a flurry of cuts trying to force his sword off. Catellus knew he was right handed, his facility with a sword in his left was good, but it was not the lethal extension of his will that his right was. Then with an unexpected, fully committed lunge, Catellus pushed in, throwing a foot behind his, sending him crashing to the sand. Catellus’ attack turned to all out hail of blows. Having to keep his sword up to defend himself and without his right hand to help regain his feet, Hekration was trapped on his back under Catellus' unrelenting assault. And there would be no let up, Catellus would not tire, the action of attack as natural as breathing for both of them. Everything now was instinct and muscle memory. Hekration’s mind disappeared into the grey clouds between thought and action. His belly cramped with effort as he yanked his legs up and thrust out with both feet, his boots driving into Catellus’ torso and abdomen. Catellus was thrown away from him, stumbling to the ground. Hekration threw his hips to the side pulling his shoulders from the sand and rolling into a crouch. He sprang after Catellus. Catellus was climbing to his knees, and turned toward him. It was his left side, where Catellus was blind. Hekration slammed into him using his body weight to force him to the sand, thrusting the gladius into his side. Catellus body arched and he gave a brute cry. With a savage push, Hekration rammed twenty inches of steel up and under his brother’s ribs. He heard a scream from the crowd. It must have been one of the Iron Born or the people from the city. Catellus’ body spasmed, but he made no other move. Hekration pulled the blade free. A torrent of blood flooded from the wide wound. He painfully pulled himself up onto his knees and took a few heaving breaths before setting his sword on the sand and rolling Catellus onto his back. Catellus watched him with his good eye, rain pounding into his face, mixing with the blood that flowed from his mouth and damaged eye. He gave a weak smile. “A good death,” he choked. Hekration lifted his brother's head and leaned down to him. “It is,” he said, feeling yet another stone grow in his chest. “Go now. Go and be with them.” Catellus watched him, his eyes growing distant. “We will be waiting for you, brother,” he said. He nodded. “Tell them I look forward to seeing them.” And then Catellus died. Hekration laid his brother's head on the blood soaked sand and sat back. There was pain at watching him die. There always was. But there was something more important than his pain - or Catellus’ life. He gripped his sword and climbed to his feet. “Build the pyre,” he commanded. He turned slowly, looking at those watching. His eyes lingered on each of Catellus’ friends, finally resting on Acestes Colt. “Are there any others who challenge my word?” he demanded.